


in spite of your faults - or possibly even because of them

by penrosequartz



Category: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - Michael Scott
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fever Dreams, Fix-It, Getting Together, I'm sad so I wrote this, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Polyamory, Road Trips, Starbucks, getting drunk, hooo boy this took longer than it should have but i guess i'm happy with it, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 15:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11626704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penrosequartz/pseuds/penrosequartz
Summary: Dee's alive. Billy's alive. Machiavelli's alive.They're all pretty gay.





	in spite of your faults - or possibly even because of them

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i tried pls enjoy  
> there's like, nothing of this ship. so i wrote it

“How?”

It was a hot summer afternoon when Dee asked the question. It didn't really seem to be addressed to either of the other men in the room, as Dee was actually just staring at the off-white spray-concrete roof, but Billy (ever the chatty one) prompted him anyway.

“What?” The man once known as Billy the Kid asked.

Machiavelli sighed heavily, perched on the dusty armchair in the corner of the room.

“How did it end up like this?” Dee sat up, glaring at Billy, “How did I end up in a shitty hotel in Arizona with an immortal Italian and a gun-toting historical figure?”

“Fuck, don't ask me,” Billy gave a low whistle, “After all that mess, and you nearly _died-”_

“I _did_ die, actually, and by some miraculous twist of fate, I was somehow revived, and brought back to this century, and now I’m in a crap roadside motel with _you two,_ of all people,” Dee cried exasperatedly, flopping back down on one of the three single beds in their cheaply rented room.

“You still haven't really gone into that…” Billy trailed off, gazing hopefully at Dee.

“I don't feel like talking about it,” Dee sighed, resting one of his arms over his eyes.

Machiavelli pulled a newspaper out of his expensive briefcase. It was one of the only things he'd kept from his ‘former life’ as it were. It had been a couple of months since he'd worn an actual suit, which was odd to think, but in reality he was becoming reasonably comfortable with simple button-ups. Billy had even gone as far to buy Machiavelli a Hawaiian shirt. It was quite nice, honestly - maybe he'd wear it tomorrow. Maybe.

Surprisingly, the generally uptight Englishman, once advisor to Queen Elizabeth I, had taken to wearing t-shirts. It almost reminded Machiavelli of Nicholas, although he kept that to himself. Billy almost exclusively wore t-shirts and jeans, the former being mostly band merchandise, and the latter being unfairly tight (Niccolo was resolutely _not_ going there).

Although he still had access to (almost) all his money in France, which was probably enough to have all three of them set for life, he was beginning to enjoy their weird hiding-from-possible-stray-bad-guys road trip across the USA. He supposed Dee kind of counted as a “possible-stray-bad-guy,” but Machiavelli had mostly forgiven Dee’s shortcomings and moved on. He didn't know if Dee was ever going to forgive _himself_ , but he could only hope.

“Anything good?” Billy asked, peering at Machiavelli’s paper.

“Oh, politics. Sport. The usual rubbish they fill these things with,” Machiavelli pursed his lips.

“Crossword?” Billy inquired, and as Machiavelli flipped to the rear of the paper he saw Dee perk up. He couldn't blame him, he'd also take _any_ kind of intellectual stimulation at the moment. Things had been pretty quiet since… well. Their last ‘encounter _._ ’

“One across, four letters: Roman mythological mother of the Gemini,” Machiavelli groaned, “Ugh, Leda.”

“I never liked her,” Dee sighed, “She had a stick up her ass.”

Machiavelli scanned the clues, looking for anything else he might know, before his eyes widened in surprise.

“What?” Billy asked, mildly amused at the shocked expression on the Italian’s face.

“Truly, fate has led us to this crossword puzzle,” Machiavelli grinned, glancing over at Dee.

“What are you talking about?” Billy looked confused, but a smile lit up his face.

“5 down, 4, 3. The clue is “signs off as 007.” A bit cryptic for this crossword, honestly,” Machiavelli shrugged, but his lips curled upwards.

“Ugh,” Dee rolled his eyes, curling into a ball on his bed, “It's James Bond, it's always _bloody_ Bond.”

“I don't understand,” Billy frowned again, the adorable confused look still on his face ( _still not going there, you can't make me_ ), and Machiavelli found himself laughing as he explained.

“The good doctor here,” Machiavelli gestured to the sulking, curled figure on the bed, “Used to sign off his reports as ‘007.’”

“Really? That's pretty cool, Johnny boy!” Billy laughed, bounding over to Dee, nudging him.

Dee sat up, eyes narrowed.

“Don't you _‘Johnny boy’_ me,” Dee tried to sound intimidating, but Billy poked him and the magician gave in, laughing.

“Why do you even know that?” Dee frowned at Machiavelli as Billy sat on the other side of Dee’s bed.

“I know lots of things about you,” Machiavelli tried not to sound creepy, but it didn't really work, “I did my research, that is.”

There was a strange pause in the room as Dee and Machiavelli made eye contact that sustained for a few seconds too long.

Billy cleared his throat.

“You two need a moment?” He asked awkwardly, but not without humour. Billy wasn’t not blind, he could tell that there was some sort of weird sexual tension between the Europeans, but he hadn't really brought it up. Whether that was due to how horrible that situation would be (especially if he was wrong), or because every day he was falling slightly more in love with _both of them,_ he didn't know. Maybe a combination of those two things.

Dee looked lowered his gaze to the dirty, carpeted floor, and Machiavelli stared back down at his crossword. Damn.

It took a couple of minutes of blankly staring at the black and white grid, and hearing the other men’s laughter echo around in his head, for Machiavelli to realise the obvious.

He raised his head again.

“James Bond doesn't fit,” he said, smirking, “It's 4, 3.”

“You're kidding,” Dee raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Well, I've got to check the other clues first, to be sure,” Machiavelli suddenly noticed what time it actually was (five in the evening), and took note of the fact that they'd all skipped lunch today.

He made eye contact with Billy from across the room, who quickly smiled.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, Mac?” Billy asked.

“If you're thinking about getting some dinner, then yes,” Machiavelli nodded.

“I'm not hungry,” Dee muttered.

“You need to eat,” Machiavelli stood, stretching, and Dee shook his head.

“Dee,” the Italian sighed, “You've lost weight. You need to keep up your strength.”

Dee just shook his head again, he didn't want food. Well, no. He did want food. But he shouldn't have it, he'd feel sick.

“Johnny boy,” Billy grabbed some of Dee’s shirt, pointing his finger into Dee’s chest, “You're eating whether you like it or not. We can't have you passing out on us, okay? You gotta. For us.”

Billy stood, grabbing the keys to their shitty car off the small table near the door.

“Let's see if we can find something cheap at that gas station, yeah? We can heat it up here,” Billy said.

“God save us all,” Machiavelli sighed, and Dee gave in, standing, before frowning.

“Wait, if we're just gonna get something to heat up here… why do we all have to go?” Dee asked.

“You seriously just wanna be left here? Alone?” Bill asked.

“Didn't know you cared so much, William. Or Henry?” Dee asked dryly, sitting back on his bed.

“Don't call me either of those, god. Mac will stay here with you, yeah?” Billy quirked an eyebrow in Machiavelli’s direction.

“Why can't I go get dinner?” Machiavelli whined. He didn't know how long he could be in Dee or Billy’s presence - he needed time to think.

“Absolutely not,” Billy scowled, “You'll buy out half the store, then you'll come back here and you won't be able to make anything because ‘oh, what kitchen doesn't have a blast chiller and a slow cooker?’”

“Fine,” Machiavelli grimaced, striding over to his bed and trying to lay down on it as elegantly as possible.

 

* * *

 

It'd been a little too long, but Billy the _Idiot_ didn't take his phone, so Machiavelli was just patiently hoping for the best. He was still lying on his bed when he realised that Dee was sitting up. He had his back to Machiavelli, but the Italian could tell that something wasn't quite right. The weight sat differently on the doctor’s shoulders. The world was heavier.

“Dee?” Machiavelli asked.

An imperceptible shudder of the Englishman’s body left Machiavelli very concerned. He stood, slowly approaching.

“John?” He asked softly, walking to stop in front of him, and he noticed that Dee was crying.

“Are you alright?” Machiavelli very lightly touched Dee’s shoulder.

“No one told me about this bit. Neither of you,” Another tear tracked down Dee’s cheek and into his beard. His tone was broken and even slightly accusing.

“What do you mean?” Machiavelli awkwardly sat beside Dee.

“Most people can count on one hand how many people they've killed, if any,” Dee said darkly, “But I can't count how many I've killed. Hundreds, Niccolo. Even more. I didn't know most of them, there's few I remember or even know the names of. I could have killed everyone on the planet.”

“You didn't. That's what matters,” Machiavelli registered Dee’s use of ‘Niccolo,’ his first name. That was new. Well, not exactly _new,_ per se - but they hadn’t used their first names with each other since the whole… fiasco?

It was Machiavelli’s fault, mostly. He just didn’t want John to think that anything had changed (but of course, everything had).

And he'd called him John. Equally surprising.

“I still killed people, so many people… Virginia is dead, too,” Dee swallowed, the pressure building in his throat. He wanted to scream. Cry. He wanted to die. He wished that idiot had left him on Danu Talis, so that he could just _stay dead,_ and instead now his Elder masters were dead. Or were they?

Anyway, he was still alive.

Yeah, he really wanted to keep crying. Crying felt pretty good.

So he kept crying, and Machiavelli just sat there patiently, until Dee gathered up the courage to rest his head on the Italian’s shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Dee said, his voice cracking.

“So am I,” Machiavelli responded.

 

* * *

 

“I’m back!” Billy called happily, swinging open the door before stopping abruptly. Dee, _resting his head on Machiavelli’s shoulder?_ Well, Billy thought he’d died and gone to heaven, but something was clearly not right.

“Is everything okay?” He asked concernedly.

“Yes,” Dee stammered, lifting his head off the Italian.

“No,” Machiavelli stated at the same time.

“Hey!” Dee exclaimed, wiping at his eyes - _‘Wait, had he been crying?_ ’ Billy thought.

“John,” Machiavelli began, and Billy was shocked at the use of a first name, “Clearly you are not feeling your best. Have some food and then we can watch television, does that sound good?”

Dee pursed his lips slightly, but nodded anyway, murmuring something as he grabbed the blanket out from under himself and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“What?” Machiavelli asked blankly. Had Dee just said what he’d thought he'd said?

“Nothing,” Dee scowled.

Probably not, then.

“Is he okay?” Billy cocked his head to one side, glancing at the Englishman now rugged up on the bed.

“Yes, I think he’s just feeling a bit down. We’ve all been through a lot in the past couple of months, and that tends to have a significant impact of on one’s mental health,” Machiavelli explained, rubbing his temples.

“M’fine,” Dee’s muffled voice came through the comfortable mess of blanket.

“Sure,” Billy smiled down at the soft ball. Machiavelli smiled too: they were turning into quite the family,

 _No. He didn't just think that. That was_ **_not_ ** _what he meant._

“Are _you_ okay?” Billy turned to Machiavelli, who suddenly seemed anxious.

“I need some air. You can relax if you'd like, I can cook. Just give me five minutes,” Machiavelli stood.

“No, I’ll cook. It's _Easy Mac_ after all,” Billy’s laugh twinkled in the air, and while Machiavelli felt like he'd just been blessed by an angel, he really did need a breather. He pushed past a now even more worried Billy and opened the door.

“What is up with you two?” Billy whispered fondly at the bundle of blanket. The material was ever so slightly moving up and down. Billy suddenly realised that Dee had already fallen asleep.

“Aw, cuties,” Billy giggled, taking the Easy Mac out of the box.

 

* * *

 

Machiavelli wasn’t going down that road.

I mean, they were all immortal.

He assumed Dee was still immortal? The asshole still hadn’t shared anything with them.

But he guessed it could be pretty traumatic, whatever had happened.

Oh, Jesus. The plain truth of it was that he just wasn’t ready for this. He couldn’t have feelings for either of them, let alone _both._

“So, first names, huh?” Billy voice came from behind.

Machiavelli jumped, “Oh my god! Don’t do that.”

“What’s wrong, Mac?” Billy asked, edging forward. Machiavelli could feel his self-control (something he prided himself on) crumbling to dust.

“I- uh. Fuck,” Machiavelli felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Is that your phone? I thought we were supposed to keep them turned off?” Bill asked anxiously.

“It _was_ off,” Machiavelli growled, pulling the phone out of his pocket. The phone didn’t recognise the number.

“Don’t answer it,” Billy said immediately, just as Machiavelli pressed the green button and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello? Who is this?” He asked coolly.

_“Machiavelli? It’s Sophie.”_

“W-what? Uh. How?” Niccolo managed to get out before impulsively shoving the phone at Billy.

“It’s Sophie,” the Italian hissed.

“Don’t give it to me!” Billy ran inside, and Machiavelli followed him, throwing the phone onto the bed in front of a now-awake Dee.

“You two woke me up, why are you - what? Why is your phone on?” Dee frowned.

“It’s Sophie!” Billy said, alarmed.

Dee calmly put the phone on speaker.

“Hello, Sophie,” he greeted.

_“Dee? Oh, you’re alive. What a, uh. Pleasant surprise?”_

“Mhm. Why are you calling Niccolo?” He asked.

_“Just checking in. Was that Billy I heard?”_

“Uh, yeah. Hey,” Billy said awkwardly.

_“Well, great. It seems we all survived. I don’t know how.”_

“Magic?” Machiavelli suggested hesitantly.

 _“Very funny, Niccolo,”_ came another voice, male this time, echoing through the phone.

“Flamel?” Dee asked, shocked, “Lord, I thought you were dead.”

 _“No, we’re all alive. All of us. What an achievement,”_ a different female voice stated.

“Scathach. Good to hear from you,” Niccolo raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. He wasn’t lying - the Warrior may have thrown him through a door, but it was sort of nice to know she wasn’t dead.

 _“So, what have you three been doing?”_ Sophie asked.

Billy grinned. Boy, did they have stories.

“It seems more people than we liked survived this ordeal,” Dee said grimly, “I’m not sure how that works. A few have tried to hunt us down, so we’ve been laying low. Where are you all now?”

_“We’re back in San Francisco. You?”_

“Arizona, currently. Long story,” Machiavelli paused, “You don’t seem particularly angry with… any of us?”

_“Why would I be?”_

There was a pause.

_“Okay, let me rephrase: I’ve forgiven you, and I think we need to stick together. Personally, I think something big is still coming. This isn’t over yet.”_

“So, what?” Billy snickered, “You want to meet up in San Fran for a big magical survival dinner?”

 _“That actually sounds pretty good,”_ Josh’s voice piped up.

“Josh?” Dee’s jaw dropped, “Or, Marethyu. Or whatever. Uh. Hello.”

_“Hi.”_

Machiavelli smiled, “We’ll meet you in San Francisco, provided no monsters kill us along the way.”

 _“Okay. Goodbye.”_ There was a chorus of farewells that poured out of the phone. Machiavelli could pick out Perenelle, Saint-Germain, and a few others he didn’t know too well.

Machiavelli hung up. Dee’s mouth was closed tightly now, and Niccolo could see the tension in his jaw.

“Are you alright?” the Italian asked.

“I heard Virginia,” Dee said, not showing any discernible emotion.

“Oh,” Machiavelli said.

“What am I going to do?” Dee asked both the other men in the room.

“Tell her how you feel?” Bill eventually replied awkwardly and unwillingly.

“What?” Dee frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you love her, don’t you?” Machiavelli sighed.

“No. Not like that, anyway,” Dee rolled his eyes at their shocked expressions.

“Oh,” both Billy and Machiavelli said, sharing a look.

“Not anymore,” Dee added.

“What happened?” Billy asked.

“Things. Besides, I met other people,” Dee said shiftily.

“Whatever, you never want to share,” Billy rolled his eyes, “Want dinner.”

“Yes, thank you,” Machiavelli said politely.

“I’m starving,” Dee nodded.

Billy rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Billy the Kid had a bottle of gin.

“I don’t know, do you really think that’s a good idea?” Machiavelli eyed the bottle nervously.

“Come on, it’s just a drink. I haven’t had alcohol in a while, please?” Billy begged.

“You drinking doesn’t require me to,” Niccolo pointed out.

“But it won’t be as fun!” Dee exclaimed, “When was the last time you got drunk?”

“A while ago,” Machiavelli pursed his lips, “I made a big mistake.”

“We won’t let you make any mistakes, right Billy?” Dee nudged the American.

“Of course not,” Billy agreed.

“Please, Nicky,” Dee giggled, trying to keep a straight face.

Machiavelli glared at him, “I’ll drink if you promise never to call me that again. Ever.”

“Done,” Dee shook hands with Niccolo, and Billy brought out three plastic cups.

“Let the fun begin,” the American laughed.

“I’m already regretting this,” Niccolo groaned.

 

* * *

 

Niccolo was barefoot and shirtless. John had no pants and one sock.

Billy was still completely clothed.

“This isn’t _fair,_ you’re cheating somehow!” Dee howled dramatically, putting down his hand of cards.

“Just admit it, John,” Billy snickered as Dee peeled off his t-shirt, “I’m better at this than you.”

Niccolo shivered.

“I’m cold,” he complained, “Can’t we stop already?” He took another sip of gin.

“Well, maybe,” Billy grinned evilly, turning to the Italian, “We can start a more… active pastime.”

“Does he mean what I think he means?” Niccolo turned to Dee, questioning him in Italian.

“I think so,” Dee replied in the same language.

“I can keep you warm, Mac…” Billy trailed off, smirking.

“Yes, definitely,” Dee amended, still in Italian.

“Huh, both of you speak sexy language. Say something else,” Billy giggled, reaching for his cup.

“Jesus christ, no, I think you’ve had enough. Do you even know what you’re saying?” Machiavelli asked in English.

“I want you,” Billy pointed at Machiavelli, before swivelling to Dee, “And you to make out with me. And each other. Mostly me.”

“I think it’s time for bed,” Niccolo could feel his face heating up.

“Exactly!” Billy exclaimed.

“Not what he meant, I suspect,” Dee laughed, hoisting Billy over to the American’s own bed.

He was out before he hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my god. What happened last night?” Billy asked, head pounding.

“You drank a lot, and flirted badly,” Dee groaned, holding his own head in his hands, “I want to die.”

“Speak for yourself, I thought his flirting was quite good,” Machiavelli said lightly, not really thinking, “I cannot believe immortals still get hangovers. Was there more than one bottle? Surely we all aren't _that_ lightweight.”

“This sucks, how are we supposed to get to San Francisco?” Billy frowned, “This was such a bad idea.”

“Not to say I told you so, but…” Machiavelli paused, disgusted, as Dee rushed to the bathroom and threw up, “I told you so.”

 

* * *

 

“Man, hangover cures are the best thing to ever exist,” Billy burped slightly, hands gripping the wheel.

“I take offence to that statement,” Dee was slurping from a plastic take-away cup full of iced water, by way of a straw, “I am the best thing to ever exist.”

“Sure, John,” Niccolo pinched the bridge of his nose. The weather was warm, too warm, and it was making the car stuffy.

“I can't breathe,” the Italian choked out, rolling the window down and letting the slightly cooler air from the highway flow in. A sudden thumping noise filled the car.

“Put your fucking window up, Mac! My head hurts like a bitch,” Billy cried.

“Put yours down, there's no air in this damn car!” Machiavelli yelled back.

Billy narrowed his eyes, rolling down his window.

“My hair is going everywhere,” Dee complained, iron-coloured strands matting themselves across his face.

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Niccolo rolled his eyes, sipping his pomegranate juice.

“Why would you even order that?” Dee eyed the drink, “Probably tastes like shit.”

“What?” The Italian couldn't hear him over the wind. Dee motioned for Machiavelli to put his window up, and he sighed, obliging.

 _“Put your fucking window up, Billy,”_ Machiavelli mocked the American as the thumping noise filled the car again.

“Not in the mood for your shit, _Nicky,_ ” Billy snickered, rolling up his window again.

“I said,” Dee restarted, pointing to Machiavelli’s drink, “Why would you order that?”

“It tastes good!” Niccolo protested.

“Liar,” Dee smirked, reaching for Machiavelli’s cup, “Lemme taste.”

“What? No, John, you unsanitary pig,” Niccolo growled as Dee swiped at the juice, “I could have some deadly Italian disease, or something.”

“Probably something from the Pleistocene era, you fossil,” Billy interjected, laughing.

“C’mon, please?” Dee pleaded as Machiavelli held it away from him.

“God, fine,” Niccoli grumpily handed the juice to the Englishman, who looked pleased. It was worth giving up his drink to see that expression on Dee’s face, Machiavelli thought.

_No, he didn't think that._

“Besides,” commented Dee, drawing Niccolo out of his reverie.

“Besides what?” The Italian frowned.

“If anyone's going to have a deadly ancient disease,” Dee paused, taking a sip, “It’s me.” The Englishman winked at Niccolo, who rolled his eyes.

“That's actually not too bad,” Dee pondered, glancing down at the ruby-red juice, “Switch?” He held out the cup full of iced water.

“Eh, okay,” Machiavelli shrugged, taking the cup, pulling out the straw and turning it around, and drinking some.

“You two look like a pair of high school girls at Starbucks,” Billy laughed at the sudden image of the two immortals drinking frappuccinos and texting.

“Starbucks? The coffee chain?” Dee raised an eyebrow.

“You've never been?” Billy asked.

Machiavelli and Dee shared a look before responding, in unison, “No.”

“We’ll get some in L.A.,” Billy smiled.

“The City of the Angels?” Machiavelli cocked his head to one side, “Why are we stopping there?”

“Well we're gonna sleep there, ain't we?” Billy rolled his eyes, “We can't drive for two days straight, I’m not driving all night. We’ll just check into a motel.”

“Sometimes I forget how big the USA is,” Machiavelli mused. He'd been living in Europe for too long, where you could visit Germany and be back in time for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Billy watched as Machiavelli slowly drifted off in the back seat. The Italian hadn't been sleeping well, he knew that. He was disappointed that, although the Englishman had similar insomniac-like qualities, Dee hadn't fallen asleep. Both men twitched in their sleep every night, murmuring, even the occasional shout. It left Billy feeling sort of sad for the both of them - surprisingly, he didn't have many nightmares anymore.

“So, Johnny Boy,” Billy smiled warmly, “What's eatin ya?”

“I'm sorry?” Dee stiffened slightly.

“You just seen a little edgy, that's all. Are you… doing okay?” Billy asked.

Dee looked surprised.

“I’m… I’m okay. Mostly,” Dee said, surprisingly honestly, “I'm not really looking forward to seeing - well, any of them, I suppose, but particularly Virginia.”

“Any specific reason why?” Billy flicked the indicator on, switching lanes.

“It will be strange, with everything else that is - that has happened,” Dee corrected himself.

“And everything else that is going on?” Billy asked.

“Yes,” Dee said uncomfortably.

“And what is it, that's going on?” Billy asked.

“I think I might be in love,” Dee’s voice was barely above a whisper, but Billy heard him perfectly clearly.

“Oh,” the American said.

“I haven't been in love for a very long time, Billy,” Dee frowned anxiously, “And I never expected it to- be who it is.”

“And who is that?” Billy asked, an edge of desperation in his voice.

Dee very carefully and controllably directed his gaze out the window.

 

* * *

 

“How’d I get here?” Dee asked, sitting up on the double bed in the centre of the hotel room.

“You fell asleep, and Mac woke up. He carried you up here,” Bill smirked.

“Oh,” Dee blushed slightly at the image.of Machiavelli easily carrying him up the stairs.

“You are fucking heavy, John,” Niccolo walked out of the bathroom, wringing his hands slightly.

“Whatever,” Dee rolled his eyes, “So, we’re in L.A.?”

“Yeah,” Billy smiled slowly, watching the look of realisation dawn on Dee’s face.

“There's only-” Dee began.

“We know,” Machiavelli sighed, “It was one of the only hotels that had a room, amazingly. Apparently there's some kind of event on.”

“So… what? We're all sleeping in one double bed?” Dee asked, disbelieving.

“Hardly,” Machiavelli scoffed, nodding to the couch, “That's a fold out.”

“Well, I claim this, you two can share. You're better friends,” Dee flopped back on the bed.

Billy and Machiavelli glanced at each other.

“Really, John? Those things are uncomfortable already, and they're not really built for more than one. I'll share with you,” Machiavelli stated.

“Why has God forsaken me?” Dee whispered.

“We have known each other the longest, John,” Machiavelli raised his eyebrows.

“Fine, you know what?” Dee sat up again, “I’ll take the fold-out, and you two can have the double.”

Billy shrugged, “Fine with me.”

“Alright,” Machiavelli gave Dee a strange look, before adding, “Should we get room service?”

“Yeah!” Billy exclaimed, grabbing the in-house menu and sitting on the bed next to Dee, “I haven't had ravioli since 1953.”

 

* * *

 

“I don't feel so good,” Dee murmured against Billy’s back. He was leaning his head between the shoulder blades of the American as they both sat on the huge double bed.

“What’s wrong?” Billy immediately said, twisting his head, “Was there something wrong with your food?”

“No, I don't think it was that,” Dee said quietly, “I haven't been feeling great for a few days.”

“Why did you agree to drinking so much, then?” Machiavelli sighed, approaching the two men, gently pulling Dee’s head off Billy and resting the back of his hand on the Englishman’s forehead, “God, you're burning up.”

“I-” Dee’s eyes suddenly widened, and he ran to the bathroom to throw up.

“Shit,” Billy hung his head, “He threw up this morning, too. I should have realised that something was wrong.”

Machiavelli was already following Dee into the bathroom, but he turned at looked at Billy seriously.

“In absolutely _no way_ is this your fault,” the Italian glared, lowering himself down a little and taking Billy’s hand in his, “We have to figure out what’s wrong with John. Okay?”

Billy looked down at Machiavelli’s hand in his and smiled (it turned into a grimace as soon as he heard Dee retch again).

 

* * *

 

Dee kept having nightmares. They all overlapped - what was what was going on?

“What,” Dee’s voice cracked, “What's happening?”

“You had a fever, and you were having a nightmare,” Machiavelli’s voice murmured, “Do you remember anything?”

“Yes…” Dee paused, “Why can't I see anything?”

“Because it's dark,” Machiavelli’s voice was high and cold, more emotionless than Dee had ever heard it.

“I can turn on the light,” the Italian added, sounding cruel, “But I’m afraid you won't like what you see.”

A yellow light flickered overhead, and the smell of brimstone filled the air. Dee took in his surroundings. He was sitting in a circle, painted in what looked like blood. Symbols were painted too, and bones were littered around him. Sage bushes grew up out of cracks in the ground - asphalt? Dee, glancing upwards and around himself, suddenly realised where he was: an outdoor basketball court. The light that had flickered on… was that the sun?

Dee scrambled up, seeing Machiavelli standing in front of him. But there was something _wrong_ in his face, he almost looked like he was propped up.

“Or maybe you do like what you see, Doctor,” Machiavelli’s almost ridiculous-sounding voice didn't seem to be in sync with the Italian’s mouth.

Two things hit Dee at the same time: it wasn't Niccolo’s voice, it was an _impersonation,_ and the voice wasn't coming from Machiavelli- it was coming from behind Dee himself.

The Englishman spun around, coming face-to-face with Isis and Osiris, just before they melted into the ground. Dee gazed around at the multiple netball hoops set up around the basketball court, along with the basketball hoops, and discovered that there was a body hanging from each.

A shock ran through Dee’s body, and he woke, gasping.

“John?” Machiavelli’s voice came through the dark again, “Are you okay?”

“This isn't real,” Dee mumbled, curling into himself, “This isn't real.” Dee’s aura began to glow around his body, the room filling with the odour of sulphur.

“Fuck,” Machiavelli gasped, “Dee, I’m real, okay, this is real, you're not dreaming anymore, but you _cannot_ use your aura, do you understand me? You will bring everything in all of America down on us.”

“I don't believe you,” Dee whispered.

A hand ran through Dee’s hair.

“Johnny boy…” Billy voice soothed him, the yellow fading slightly, “Listen to me. I want you to take a deep breath, okay? Do you want me to turn on the light?”

“N-no,” Dee managed to choke out, “Please don't, no lights.”

“Okay,” Machiavelli’s voice was steady but a little nervous - real, Dee reminded himself, “No lights.”

Dee exhaled, his aura winking out, and he drifted off to sleep as arms wrapped around him.

 

* * *

 

“What did you do?” Billy asked, barely visible in the light from the city below.

“A trick that I learned from an old acquaintance of mine. Nightmares manifest in the aura. Controlled draining of the aura is okay, as it simply tires out the person, and gets rid of the dreams,” Niccolo sighed, holding Dee’s body.

Billy nodded, smiling softly at the pair through the gloom, before reality started to set in.

“We can't stay here,” Billy said gently, “Somethin’ will have sensed that, for sure.”

“Yes, I agree, we need to leave,” Machiavelli turned his head towards Billy, “Soon.”

“Soon?” Billy repeated questioningly.

“Why are you still here, Billy?” There was a suspicious tone in the Italian’s voice, “You could have left, you could be living comfortably somewhere. I’m sure you make friends reasonably easily.”

“I care about you,” Billy admitted quietly, grinning as he looked down at Dee, still cradled in Niccolo’s arms, “About both of you. I don't think you'd survive without me, honestly.”

“Fair enough,” Machiavelli smiled a small smile, also glancing at Dee, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Dee woke to the smell of sugar and coffee. He glanced around, finding that he was actually in a car.

Niccolo glanced towards him, face breaking into a smile, “Billy, he's awake.”

The American swivelled around with a grin.

“Morning, Johnny boy!” Billy said cheerily.

“This is happening a lot,” Dee rubbed at his eyes, yawning, “Where's my coffee?”

“None for you,” Machiavelli stated, “You get water. And fruit, if you’d like. Are you feeling okay?”

“Much better, yes…” Dee nodded, noticing that both Billy and Machiavelli seemed a little off. Fearing another nightmare, Dee added a hesitant: “What?”

Both men burst out laughing.

“My apologies, John, it's just…” Niccolo paused, “You, uh…”

“You talk in your sleep!” Billy was still laughing loudly.

“And why is that so amusing?” Dee raised an eyebrow, a mixture of anxiety, embarrassment, and relief flowing through him.

“Oh, nothing,” Niccolo smiled.

“Tell me!” Dee pleaded, “Come _on,_ Nico!”

“Oh, Nico,” Billy smiled, starting up the car taking a quick sip of his coffee, “That's new. I like it.”

“You just said some very… personal things?” Machiavelli offered.

“Oh, God,” Dee’s face went bright red, “Tell me I didn't-”

Niccolo, realising where Dee was going with that sentence, interrupted him, “No, nothing, uh. Nothing over-eighteen. It was pretty cute though,” the man gave Dee a very small smile.

Dee felt like he just witnessed a flower blooming.

“What did I say?” Dee groaned, “I need to know. For damage-control purposes.”

Billy laughed, pulling out of the parking space, “Well, you kind of confessed?”

“Confessed what?” Dee asked confusedly, “My sins?”

“Well, no,” Billy giggled, “You were kinda awake, I think. Mac - sorry, _Nico_ was taking you to the car, and you just… said you loved him?”

“Don't leave yourself out of this, Billy,” Machiavelli mumbled, “He pointed at you, too.”

There was a pause.

“Are you… are you serious?” Dee asked, a wave of panic seizing him, although he didn't really know why.

“Yeah, but I mean, you were half asleep. You could have been saying anything, y’know?” Billy made a right turn, before adding, “Well, I guess I know who you're in love with, now.”

Dee glanced at him questioningly in the rear-vision mirror.

“Niccolo, obviously,” Billy said, as if it was obvious, “You said his name first, he was the one carrying you - you totally have a crush on him.”

Machiavelli hid his head in his hands, before hurriedly grabbing his iced tea and taking a long drink.

“I am over five centuries old, Billy! I do not have a _crush-”_ Dee scowled at the word, “On anybody.”

“Well, what term would you prefer?” Billy laughed again, like chimes twinkling in the wind, “Romantic interest? Possible suitor?”

“Billy, stop!” Machiavelli groaned, “Please.”

“I won't stop until he admits that he’s in love with you,” Billy said, a sudden edge to his voice, “Just say it, John.”

“Woah, Billy,” Dee frowned, “Why so weird all of a sudden?”

“John, please- just. Say it. Please,” Billy sighed, eyes still on the road, “Please.”

“Fine,” Dee said eventually, “It’s taken me a little while to come to terms with this, I suppose. I- I, John Dee, am in love with someone. In fact…” he paused.

“Two people,” he finished.

“What?” Billy asked.

“I have… feelings? For both of you?” Dee rubbed the back of his head, avoiding both men’s gazes.

There was another short pause, but Billy quickly filled it.

“Nico, surely I’m not the only one who thinks this is a dream come true?” He asked.

“Uh, no. You’re not. I just… didn’t expect this to actually work out?” Machiavelli said hesitantly.

“What, so… are we all...?” Dee trailed off.

“Yep, seems we’re all gay for eachother,” Billy smirked.

“I never understood that expression,” Machiavelli mused, “I mean, can one be straight for someone? Bisexual for someone?”

“You know what bisexual is?” Dee raised an eyebrow at Niccolo.

“Oh, come on, John. I’m not _that_ old - most Roman soldiers were bisexual. Did you know that?” Machiavelli grinned at Dee’s slightly shocked expression, “No, I didn’t think so.”

 

* * *

 

“How much better are you feeling?” Machiavelli asked as they approached the outskirts of San Francisco.

“A lot better,” Dee paused, “Does this mean I can try Starbucks now?”

“I feel like you’ll get addicted to it if we let you,” Billy laughed.

“Oh no,” Dee said flatly, “A starbucks addict. Will I have to go to rehab?”

The trio burst into laughter.

 

* * *

 

“Well, aren’t we all such good friends,” Billy said sarcastically, patting some ointment on Dee’s bruised face.

“I was defending your honour!” Dee exclaimed.

“I was trying to stop him doing that,” Scathach added.

“Well, thanks,” Billy laughed, “Maybe don’t start any more bar fights - you might not be able to resist using your aura next time, honey.” He slipped the pet name in without thinking, but he did notice the Shadow raise one slender eyebrow.

“I’ll be more careful next time, sweetheart,” Dee smirked, trying to gauge Scathach’s reaction. She mostly kept her face impassive, but he noticed a tiny spark of amusement in her eyes.

“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time,” Niccolo approached, lips pursed, “I had to seriously talk up that policewoman. Why are Americans so gross?”

Billy gasped, "Excuse you?"

“I can defend honour again, if you’d like,” Dee suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Niccolo said sharply, but his face softened as he saw the purple smudge blooming on Dee’s cheek, “Want me to kiss it better?”

 _‘Ah, that’s more like it,’_ Dee thought as he glanced at Scathach. She looked completely bewildered.

Dee gave a small nod, and Machiavelli bent down and pressed a small kiss to his face, before turning and doing the same to Billy.

“Let’s go find somewhere to stay,” Billy said decisively, and the other men nodded.

As they wandered off, Sophie walked over to Scathach.

“Are they leaving already? You were supposed to offer them a bed for the night!” Sophie frowned.

“Sorry, I… got distracted,” Scathach said, tearing her eyes away from the retreating trio and looking over to the rest of the group. Josh - Marethyu? - and Virginia were talking and laughing, Nicholas and Perenelle, looking much less frail and much healthier, were holding hands, while each having separate conversations with Joan and Saint-Germain. Palamedes and Shakespeare were staring around at the city, smiling vaguely at each other. Even Aoife and Niten were there, standing side by side, discussing something quietly.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing them again,” Scathach smiled back at Sophie.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments are appreciated! thanks friends  
> i may/may not write another chapter of this! it's actually for sinf week on tumblr  
> PRQ out  
> (PS: yes, the crossword solution was 'john dee')


End file.
